


Ballrooms & Beskar

by annhellsing



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Historical Inaccuracies, Mutual Pining, Victorian Attitudes, Waltzing, mini-series, more TBA - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21880093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annhellsing/pseuds/annhellsing
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man who hides his face must have little respect for his hosts.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Comments: 23
Kudos: 116





	Ballrooms & Beskar

**Author's Note:**

> since we're all out here acting like victorian maidens i thought i'd make it so

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man who hides his face must have little respect for his hosts.

Or something silly like that.

The Mandalorian is permitted his helmet, though impolite gentlemen have attempted to rid him of it. Then blamed it on the brandy. Or his impoliteness. Neither are usually the case. But people do distrust a man in a mask, especially one who speaks little and is ill-inclined to dance.

Your friends are not sure how he manages an invitation to ball after private ball. They flick their fans and flit their eyes in his direction. In the same breath that they admonish mystery, they attempt to flirt with it. Coy smiles and lingering looks never get far. It is impossible to tell his reaction, many girls have given up for that reason alone.

And the way of him is so odd. Like a firm, brick wall, he stands with his back straight. He might be looking at anyone at any given moment, but his visor makes it difficult to tell. Oftentimes, he fixes his eyes on the dancing.

None of him is bared to you. He is clad in black, from head to toe in a suit so smartly-made that it must be tailored. But on occasion, his vest moves enough to show a shining plate of beskar hidden just beneath. Even at a ball, he stands on a battlefield.

Some consider that he might be an android. But you have heard tell that he drew a blaster concealed at his hip and fired unceremoniously at a serving droid who would not leave very well alone. The repairs took weeks.

Not a droid, you suppose. But bounty hunter is the other widely-accepted theory. What other women fail to note, you understand. He is not invited to common, country balls, but is always present at those hosted by Mister Karga. And he is said to be guild-leader of far more than the money-changers.

You smile to yourself behind your fan. But as your eyes move from the Mandalorian’s, you do not notice that the T of his visor moves until it stares right at you.

Like him, you elect to watch the dancing. Your card is empty, as there is a frightful dearth of gentleman present tonight. Your friends note that in spite of this, the masked man makes no move to entertain the women that go otherwise unselected.

You wonder why he might watch the spinning, graceful waltzes if he had no desire to join in. In truth, you would like to be asked to dance. It would be better than sitting near the rumour mill. You sigh and spare a glance in his direction again, for curiosities sake.

A beat after your eyes fall on the Mandalorian again, his head pointedly turns away from you.

“Oh, I do hate the way he looks at us,” one girl stares almost wistfully in his direction over your shoulder, “we are not such pitiable creatures.”

“Indeed,” pipes another, “he is the most pitiable man in the room, standing to the side when he is an able partner.”

“He is free to do as he wishes,” you say of some volition whose origin you are unfamiliar with, “he may be averse to dancing. Perhaps his partner once stepped on his toes.”

Though you are utterly serious, a third woman takes it upon herself to twist it into a jest, “Where is she buried, then?”

“Good God,” you turn to her, “whatever are you talking about? It was only speculation,”

“I only meant,” she starts, putting her hand on your arm, “that the unlucky girl who steps on his foot may end up like that poor serving droid.” 

A flurry of gasps erupt around you. But you sit, unamused by the chattering at a lacklustre joke. To roll your eyes would be impolite, so you dispel the urge.

“Really, my dear,” you say, “you are too harsh on our Mandalorian. I only speculated that someone may have given him a bad experience, and for thoroughly uncomplicated reasons.”

But when you turn to look across the ballroom to where the man in question stands, he is not there. All of a sudden, you become painfully aware of what the girls were gasping at.

The Mandalorian stands in front of you, a hand clad in a black glove extended in your direction. You stifle a gasp of your own, looking at your wide-eyed reflection in his visor. 

“Would you like to dance?” he asks. You look at his hand.

All at once there are giggles instead of shocked sighs. The women around you try to hide their laughter with varying degrees of success. You straighten your shoulders and politely incline your head. 

“I would, sir,” you reply, “thank you.”

His hand feels warm even through the glove. His fingers close around yours almost hesitantly when you fit your palm against his. You rise from your seat and care very little for the slightly-abashed, embarrassed snickering at your back. 

“Pay them no mind,” you say to your new partner. It is so quietly said, you almost hope he does not hear.

“I’m used to it,” he replies. This is the most he has ever said to you, you suspect. Perhaps to anyone other than Mister Karga. You shake your head.

“Then you must forgive their rudeness,” you say, “and mine. For it was quite unkind of me to speculate.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he returns.

You think it best not to ask anything that runs through your head. Though it feels you have questions by the hundreds, you take his arm and let him guide you to where the scant few couples are standing. 

The orchestra hums and the song swells. You open your mouth, perhaps to ask him why he chose you but before you can breathe a word you’re swept off. His stride is long, his hand at your waist guides you carefully. 

That warm, hesitant grip on your hand is the very same well above your hip. He keeps a gentleman’s distance, more than what would be considered polite. Out of habit, you look over his shoulder at the other dancers. The two of you fall into perfect form, but you know after two steps that looking away from him will be impossible.

Your eyes flit back to his helmet as often as you can. You haven’t the faintest idea where his eyes are. 

He makes no wrong moves. He dances well, better than you expected and as you breeze by your friends you catch a glimpse of their shocked expressions. 

You must look a sight, in the arms of a man in full suit and helmet. The metal gleams in the candlelight, reflected off crystals in the chandelier. You find yourself relaxing, holding his shoulder with a familiar affection. You squeeze the hand still holding yours. 

“Most of them,” you say, nodding discreetly to the gaggle of women sitting off to the side, “were under the impression that your decision not to dance was a matter of skill.”

“Were they right?” He asks, tilting his head with a curious expression you have never seen him wear

“Decidedly not,” you smile at him, a decisive grin that sends your little group into a flurry of new giggles.

You can see a few of them craning their heads, wanting to catch your eye. You look away, purposefully. 

You spin with him, happy and freer than you have felt in a while. It is rare indeed to find so unlikely talented a partner. Regardless of what drove him from dancing, you have been stepped on many times.

But not by him. No, instead you glide alongside him. You are not thrust about possessively, simply held and shown. You could not tear your eyes from him now, not even if you wanted to.

“Would you forgive any rudeness on my part if I asked why you have asked me to dance tonight?” you try, that radiant smile shifts to bashful sheepishness so quickly.

“It felt like the right time,” he says.

“Oh,” you return. He is aware of the loaded implication, that he wanted to ask before. A shiver runs up your spine out of anticipation for what is already happening, “I am glad you did.”

You hope that, under his tight-fitting suit and gleaming helmet that he might smile the way you do at him. 

The song is done far too quickly for your taste. Would that you could dance with such a mysterious source of envy for hours. There is no cold, deep fear in you, only intrigue. But whatever questions you summon up go unasked. This moment is too precious to spoil. 

You are aware of what is meant to happen at the end of a dance. The partners part ways, only to glance at each other for the rest of the evening. One song, that is all that is proper. 

But you want. Very suddenly, thrust to the forefront of your mind is the want to have a hundred songs with him. A thousand. You hold his hand as long as you are allowed to. 

Your breathing comes a bit shaky, you finally release him. The warmth is gone. Though you have not felt his skin against yours, your hand without his is lonely indeed.

“Would you—” you cut yourself off. You drop your eyes to the floor. Around you, couples clap. They begin to move away or prepare for the next strum of the orchestra. You know you must move on, too. “I have been told that Mister Karga has a most wonderful collection of sonnets in his library,” 

You feel hot in the face. And though you will find nothing, you look up at the Mandalorian. 

“Have you seen them?” you ask.

“No,” he says, “I haven’t,” you turn, beginning to walk away from the music. He follows at a respectable distance.

“I think I shall peruse it in a few minutes,” you say, “I should like you to join me,”

“If you’d like,” his voice through the modulator sounds roughened, but you know well enough that he whispers.

“I would,” you reply, “very much so. Shall I wait for you?” 

The Mandalorian nods, the shine of his beskar catches you off-guard. You want more than anything in the world to reach out and touch him once again. You wonder if he feels the same, or if this is some figment on the part of your mind so addled by surprise.

But then, you remember. He was waiting to ask you to dance. And you have, you realized, been waiting for so long to ask for more.


End file.
